


The Libertines

by GloriaMundi



Category: Devil's Cub - Georgette Heyer
Genre: Gen, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 01:44:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13043925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: Mary and the Duke of Avon: a night at the theatre withDon Juan, a reformed rake and a revolutionary.





	The Libertines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellseries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellseries/gifts).



The theatre was ablaze with lights, and crowded with ladies and gentlemen who had come, not to see _Don Juan_ again (poor Mr Kemble's speeches were quite drowned out by the noise of conversation and flirtation) but to be seen. The Alastair family box was the focus of much attention, for the Duke of Avon himself was in attendance, old now but still elegant in his habitual black and silver. It was to be observed that he no longer cared to powder his hair, or to wear patches. Indeed, there was nothing exceptionable about his dress: he might have been a fashionable gentleman at any London club or rout.

His Duchess, resplendent in lilac silk, drew many an eye too, for her pealing laughter rang out again and again as she spoke with her son the Marquis of Vidal. His grace the Duke, however, was engaged in intense conversation with a young woman in Pomona green, and spared not a glance for his wife or his heir.

"Who's that chit with Avon?" murmured Lord Cholmondley to Mr Fox, lowering the glass from his eye. "Young enough to be his daughter."

"True enough," was the cool reply. "That's the Marquise of Vidal. Vidal married her last year in Paris. Sir Giles Challoner's grand-daughter, I believe."

"Ah," said Cholmondley, raising his spy-glass again. "Fine-looking creature, I have to say. Wondered why we hadn't seen Vidal lately."

"If marriage has the effect on him that it's had on his father," said Mr Fox thoughtfully, "we may have to do without Vidal's company in the future."

In the Alastair box, Mary was apologising to his grace. "I beg your pardon, sir: it is only that it is so warm, and so noisy here. I was a trifle light-headed and nauseous, no more. I assure you I am quite well."

Avon gestured, as if to say that it did not signify. "No matter, my dear. Permit me to be the first to felicitate you on the forthcoming – er – event."

Mary felt herself colour, though a moment ago her skin had been clammy and cold. "Of which particular event do you speak, sir?" she said, rallying.

"You are increasing, I think?" His grace's impenetrable gaze held Mary's own: at no point did his glance fall lower than her chin. (Mary was certain that there was nothing, yet, to be seen. Her abigail had laced her a little more tightly than was usual, but the Pomona green silk covered a figure as neat as when she had married Vidal.) "I beg your pardon for speaking of such matters, but I observed that you ate little at dinner, and that you are more prone than usual to descend into a study. Vidal does know?"

"He does, sir," said Mary, smiling at the memory of her husband's jubilation when she had finally been certain enough of her state to confide in him. "We ... we wished to keep our secret for a little longer, just the two of us."

"My memory is most adaptable," said the Duke blandly.

Mary could not let this falsehood pass. "You, sir, are notoriously omniscient," she said, laughing. "Indeed, I recall remarking on it at our very first meeting."

"And yet," said Avon, "as I grow older, I discover much of which I am wholly ignorant. Often, I confess, happily so. The world is not what it was in my youth."

Mary swallowed an impertinent retort. "Times change," she said demurely, "and we change with them."

"But do we change for the better," said the Duke, leaning back in his chair and surveying the crowded theatre, the bright lights of the stage, the actors dancing there. "Or is all change for the worse? That is the question, is it not?"

Mary did not feel herself equal to this particular philosophical debate: her stomach still roiled. She glanced away, down at the stage, where Don Juan was attempting to seduce another man's wife. There was a concerted roar of laughter from the gentlemen in the pit as Mr Kemble caught the actress by the waist and dipped her low. Mary frowned.

"You do not care for the play, Mary?" enquired his grace, with a quizzical look.

"I would have thought the Ton would have tired of this tale by now," said Mary. "Don John – no, we must say Don Juan now, in the Spanish style – and his many conquests! That story, at least, has remained unaltered by the ravages of time."

"We see ourselves reflected in it," said his Grace.

"But Don Juan is punished for his vices," said Mary bitterly, "while any gentleman in town may keep a string of mistresses without fear of censure."

The cool gaze rested on her for a moment, assessing. "Yet the most depraved of libertines may be redeemed," said Avon. "In my youth I was as vicious a rake as the Don– though, I flatter myself, with rather more finesse."

"You, sir?" Of course Mary had heard tales – who had not? – of the Duke of Avon's younger days, of his mistresses and intrigues, of duels and feuds and ancient scandal. It had, of course, been a different time, a wilder time. And yet ... had the world changed very much?

"Certainly me," agreed his grace. "And Vidal has had the misfortune to inherit my vicious nature."

"He is also his mother's son," said Mary.

They both looked over to where the Duchess and Vidal sat: they were laughing together, and paying no attention whatsoever to the story unfolding on the stage.

"He is: and permit me to say that the impetuosity which she has bestowed on him has been greatly tempered by your own good sense. I must again express my profound gratitude for your willingness to marry him, Mary."

"So you frequently remind me," said Mary, laughing.

Avon inclined his head. "He is quite the reformed character," he said. "One might almost believe that _amor vincit omnia_ : love conquers all. Let us hope that your son will partake of your own rational nature, rather than the – er – tempestuous streak of the Alastairs."

There was another roar from the crowd. Mary ventured to look down at the stage, where Mr Kemble was stealing a kiss from a peasant girl. The young actress's protest seemed sincere: either, Mary thought cynically, she is a skilled dissembler, or she has all too frequently been the object of such attentions, whether on the stage or off it.

"A worthy hope, sir," said Mary, rather despondently.

"But you think it a forlorn one?" enquired his grace, uncomfortably perspicacious as he always was.

Mary swallowed. "I fear, sir," she said, "that – should I bear Vidal a son – he will take after his father."

"And his grandfather, perhaps?" Avon took snuff. "No, don't protest, my dear: you spoke from the heart. Recall, if you will, what I told you at our first meeting: Vidal's morals are rather better than mine."

"I have never believed it," said Mary firmly.

His grace arched an eyebrow. "You have known me only in my age, and I am much changed by time. When I was younger than Vidal is now, I too set out to abduct a lady: with, it must be said, considerably more attention to detail than my son." The thin mouth curved into a reminiscent smile that Mary could not altogether like. "I took care that the lady in the coach was in truth she whom I wished to marry."

Mary gave him a hard look. "And had you ascertained her own wishes in the matter?"

The Duke, raising his spy-glass to examine some personage in the box opposite, paused for an instant. "They were — er — made clear to me."

Mary could not help but look over at the Duchess, notoriously forthright, who was whispering to Lady Fanny. Vidal had risen to greet his friend Mr Fox, who had appeared at the door of the box with a young woman on his arm. Mary recognised her as Miss Delaine, a play-actress who had been much in Vidal's company when he had been courting Mary's sister. Vidal had nary a word for her now. So quickly are we forgotten, reflected Mary, when we permit our own ruin.

"'Twas long before I met _ma mie_ ," said Avon, composure regained. "And the lady spurned me, for she loved another, a fine gentleman who convinced me with his sword that she should be his and not mine."

As though she had no choice but 'twixt one man and another, thought Mary, exasperated. And no voice in the matter at all.

"Had you but asked what _she_ desired," she said, "you might have spared yourself the inconvenience."

"You are perfectly correct," admitted his grace. "And yet ... Youth, as well you know, excuses nothing. I loved her, or thought that I did." His gaze went to Léonie, now intent on Don Juan's declining fortunes, and his smile became sweeter.

"I am glad," said Mary, her indignation somewhat mellowed by this evidence, however slight, of sensibility, "that you learnt at last what it is to truly love."

"That kindness in you, my dear, may yet be the making of your son. And with every generation, the viciousness is surely thinned."

"And yet," said Mary, raising her voice to be heard over the cheering from the pit as Don Juan carried off another woman, "such a rake as the Don is still applauded at Drury Lane. What hope is there that the young gentlemen down there will go quietly to their homes, instead of attempting to seduce – nay, to force themselves upon – every female that they encounter?"

"'Tis dull sport, I grant," said his grace, making a moue: was that shame, Mary wondered, or boredom? "But it's the only sport they know."

"Then they must be taught," said Mary crossly.

"Their mothers shall teach them better behaviour," said Avon. He looked back at Mary with something very like respect.

"And their fathers?" said Mary. "Do the fathers bear no responsibility towards the children they sire?"

His grace began to speak, and checked himself. He held Mary's gaze, eyes glittering. "My dear," he said at last, "you defame my sex. Yet not, I think, without cause." His gaze flicked to Vidal, who was laughing with Charles Fox, apparently oblivious to Miss Delaine's presence at his friend's side. He would, thought Mary, have paid more notice to a favourite hound.

"I should like Vidal to impart some wisdom to his children," said Mary. "Supposing he has any of that commodity to spare. His own example is not one I should desire our son to follow."

"Touché, Mary," said Avon ruefully.

"Indeed, sir, I did not — that is," protested Mary, "I spoke only of Vidal."

"But I, perhaps, have not led an exemplary existence. 'Tis no wonder he ran wild: and I must beg your pardon for putting you to the trouble of taming him."

Mary could not help but suspect the Duke of irony.

"I deemed the work worth that trouble," she said coolly. "But it was evident to me that he was not wicked at heart: and easily managed, if one knows the way of it."

"So you told me when first we made our acquaintance. Perhaps some day, if all your daughters are as principled as yourself, and as like to be the salvation of a libertine, you shall breed a line of gentlemen who treat ladies with respect."

"Not just fine ladies," said Mary fiercely. "All women."

The Duke dropped his spyglass, and let it lie on the boards at his feet. She had surprised him, which was not easily done. "All women?" he enquired, eyebrows arching. "Mary, I had not took you for a revolutionary."

"All women," said Mary. "Indeed, it may require a revolution! But we, sir — we are more than sport."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Anne for a very constructive beta that also made me laugh aloud.  
> And thank you to hellseries, for a prompt that made me work! I know a great deal, now, about London theatre in the 1780s. None of this knowledge made it into the fic: but still.


End file.
